


Just Repaying a Debt

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: An Unlikely Bond, Escapes, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Personal Debts, Political Conflicts, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-23 17:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18154925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: This is a pre-series AU fiction inspired by the White Collar episode, “What Happens in Burma.”  In my story, Neal is the incarcerated captive in a Myanmar prison and Peter is tasked with bringing the bond forger back to the United States to stand trial. Everything doesn’t exactly follow the plan, however, and the repercussions span the ensuing years.





	1. A Shot in the Dark

The call had come in through the FBI’s main switchboard a little after 9 AM on a Monday morning. “Agent Burke,” the operator said tentatively, “I hate to bother you but someone has been badgering me nonstop for the last half-hour. A man keeps demanding that he wants to speak with you about a person of interest, but he won’t give his own name. I finally insisted that he provide a little bit more information, and he claims the matter is about Neal Caffrey. Should I put him through to you?”

Peter perked up at the mention of that name. Neal Caffrey was, most assuredly, “a person of interest” to the FBI, but to Peter, he was much more. They had shared a brief encounter outside a Manhattan bank a while back. That chance meeting had touched a nerve so that the brazen young twerp was now like a nagging toothache for Peter. The one-step behind agent wanted to catch Caffrey so bad it was like an obsession. It wasn’t exactly a vicious vendetta because the kid had made a fool out of him. It was more like vindication for the embarrassed FBI agent.

“Give me a minute before you put him through,” he quickly told the operator. Then Peter hustled onto the balcony outside his office and called to Clinton Jones down in the bullpen.

“Trace this incoming call on my extension, Jones!”

“On it,” Jones responded.

Peter took out a pen and paper and indulged in a deep breath before picking up the receiver of his phone. “This is Special Agent Peter Burke,” he said in a no-nonsense tone.

“Well, it’s about time!” a disgruntled voice huffed out its displeasure. “Getting through to you is harder than being granted a papal audience.”

“To whom am I speaking?” Peter retorted in a harsh tone. “I don’t waste my valuable time on annoying anonymous pests.”

“Look, Mr. Bigshot, I pay taxes occasionally, which means I actually help pay your salary. So, come down off your high horse!” the voice rebutted.

“You have exactly one minute to give me a name or I’m ending this call,” Peter threatened.

“Fine! You want a name? Well, just call me ‘Mr. Haversham.’ Are you happy now that we’ve become formally introduced?” the caller taunted.

“What is the nature of your urgent insistence to speak with me, _Mr. Haversham_?” Peter said evenly.

“I already told the operator why I’m calling,” the voice claimed sarcastically. “Don’t you people in Federal Plaza communicate? I want to talk about someone you and your Fed buddies have been trying to catch. You clowns have been after Neal Caffrey, right?”

“I am not going to address the nature of any FBI investigations,” Peter parried.

A deep, dramatic sigh blew through the airwaves. “Look, Agent Burke, this is literally a matter of life and death—Neal's death, to be precise. Otherwise, communing with the Federal devil incarnate would be the last thing on my agenda.”

Peter’s interest was immediately piqued. “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”

“Fine! Here it is in easy to understand sentences. Neal Caffrey is being detained and probably tortured in a Myanmar prison, and his continued good health is a matter of speculation as is his ultimate fate. The local authorities have no evidence that he committed any crime, but that doesn’t seem to matter to those goons. Since he’s an American citizen who is currently wanted in the U.S. for bond forgery, I think it would be within your purview to get him out of their evil clutches and extradited back to the United States.”

“Are you a relative?” Peter asked curiously.

“No, I’m his friend,” Haversham insisted.

“That seems a bit odd,” Peter ventured. “If you’re his friend, why would you want to turn him in to the Federal authorities? If he stands trial here, he’ll probably be looking at a prison sentence in the state of New York.”

“Better that Neal spend a few years in a Club Fed rather than in the hellhole where he is now,” Haversham said in a serious voice. “It’s like I said, he may not survive in Myanmar, and I couldn’t live with that on my conscience.”

Peter was silent for a few seconds. “Have you been in contact with the State Department? There is an American embassy in Myanmar who could probably intercede if what you say is true and Caffrey is really innocent of any crimes committed on foreign soil in Asia.”

“Don’t you think that’s the first thing I tried?” came the exasperated response. “The embassy people keep insisting that they have no record of an American citizen named Neal Caffrey entering the country recently—you know, like no legitimate visa or stamped passport at any points of entry.”

“Now, how could that little snafu have happened?” Peter asked facetiously.

“Okay, Suit, you can gloat all you want about illegal border crossings and quixotically impulsive twenty-somethings,” Haversham sputtered. “However, it doesn’t change the facts or diminish the danger. Neal could just disappear forever from the face of the earth when they decide to cremate his dead body!”

This Haversham person seemed sincere and genuinely worried, and Peter felt a twinge of apprehension as well. Myanmar wasn’t the most stable of Asian governments, and more often than not, relations with the United States as well as the United Nations were strained and resulted in sanctions because of suspected human rights violations. If Caffrey had been caught up in that quagmire, he really was in over his head.

“If my schedule permits, I’ll look into this,” Peter said casually, giving lie to the fact that he was going to be investigating this claim very deeply.

“Fine, you do that,” Haversham harrumphed. “Make sure to do your due diligence and cross every T and dot every I. However, since time is of the essence, let me take one item off your plate. I know you’re probably trying to trace this call, so let me save you from spinning your wheels. I’m calling you from exotically beautiful and charming Calcutta, India, and I’ll call again in exactly 12 hours to hear about any progress on your end.” Then there was a firm click in Peter’s ear.

Jones immediately jogged up the stairs to his boss’s office. “The trace showed the call originated from India,” he said confidently, “Calcutta, specifically.”

Peter, however, was already pulling up a map of Southeast Asia and noting that Calcutta was in the eastern Indian province of West Bengal, probably the closest big city to the Myanmar border. This could be a legitimate plea from an associate of Neal Caffrey. Any further action by Peter had to be sanctioned by a higher authority, and, in this office, that was SAC Reese Hughes. When Peter laid out the broad strokes for his boss, Hughes looked thoughtful.

“It seems like you want to go out on a very shaky limb for a small-time paperhanger, Peter,” Hughes mused. “It isn’t like Caffrey’s public enemy number one on our hit parade. He created some bond forgeries that netted him a few thou. To my knowledge, that’s the extent of his mayhem.”

“Well, that may not be the full, accurate picture of his possible involvement in some high-end art forgeries, heists, and the masterminding of a few clever Ponzi schemes,” Peter admitted sheepishly.

“Why am I just hearing about this now?” Hughes asked with an edge in his tone.

“Um, at this point, Sir, it’s still all supposition and a work in progress,” Peter answered hastily. “We don’t have any actual concrete proof.”

“Maybe we should just let nature take its course, and then we would have one less nuisance to worry about,” Hughes said callously.

“That’s one option,” Peter said softly. “But should we simply turn a blind eye and leave an American kid twisting in the wind? Can we live with that?” Peter questioned.

“I would certainly hope this isn’t something personal with you, Peter,” the SAC huffed. “We all have suffered through the disenchantment of watching a guilty party get away with a crime. When it happens on our watch, it rankles, but we can’t continue to carry around old baggage. That’s simply counterproductive.”

“We could spin this as a humanitarian gesture on the part of the FBI. The Bureau could use some good press for a change,” Peter wheedled.

“Don’t try a snow job on me, Agent Burke. That’s beneath you and unprofessional,” Hughes said evenly.

When Peter looked less than chastised by his boss’s words, Hughes finally relented because he actually harbored a soft spot for the dedicated man before him.

“Let me reach out to some old associates and I’ll get back to you this afternoon, Peter,” Hughes sighed, resigned to getting caught up in this fiasco. “In the meantime, see what your team can dig up and we’ll compare notes in the conference room at 4 o’clock sharp.”

Hughes was as good as his word and very punctual. Diana brought everyone up to speed on her end. She had reached out to old friends at the State Department who had ties to her father during his days as a diplomat. She was told, quite emphatically, that there was no record of a Neal Caffrey or any young American male matching Caffrey’s description entering the country of Myanmar in the last month. Jones had nothing to add, so Hughes produced a folder that looked very official. Peter was quite impressed when Hughes began laying out CIA surveillance photos obtained by drones flying miles above Myanmar air space. He captured everyone’s attention when he placed a finger over a distinct shape on an enhanced and grainy picture.

“The spooks down in Langley said this image was shot three weeks ago over the Myanmar jungle,” Hughes said solemnly.

“That looks like an old propeller driven plane, the kind of aircraft those crazy Allied ace pilots used during World War II to _fly the hump,_ ” Jones said in awe. With his military background, Clinton felt in his element. “Flying the hump,” he explained, “was a term used to describe making a dangerous pass over the eastern end of the Himalayan Mountains to supply the Chinese war effort. It was a risky business because back in those days there weren’t a lot of reliable navigational charts and they couldn’t rely on radios to get info about weather conditions. In essence, the pilots flew by the seat of their pants, and their journeys often started out in Burma, or what is now known as Myanmar.”

Peter looked thoughtful. “It may be possible that Caffrey went down with that plane when he was trying to flee the country, probably with some illicitly obtained precious gems or jade in his possession,” he said worriedly. “Maybe he was trying to reach Hong Kong where there’s a thriving, underground black market for that kind of thing. He could have been forced down or merely had some kind of mechanical malfunction that necessitated an impromptu landing. The plane appears intact, so it doesn’t seem to have crashed. I’m betting Caffrey’s alive since his friend is convinced of his subsequent incarceration. However, the question remains, we don’t know what kind of shape he’s in.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Peter,” Hughes replied ominously. “I still have some clout that extends beyond this office, and I have twisted the right arms so that you are going on a lengthy trip. You have been sanctioned by the DOD to fly to Naypyidaw, the administrative capital of Myanmar, to take possession of an American prisoner and return him to the United States to stand trial for crimes that occurred here on our domestic shores. If you bring back someone other than Neal Caffrey, I suppose the joke will be on all of us, and I certainly don’t want to look like a horse’s ass.”

“No Sir, of course not,” Peter hastened to answer as Hughes glared at him and added.

“Your commercial flight leaves tomorrow evening from JFK. Just make sure to bring your credentials and badge as well as your official, no nonsense Bureau scowl. This time, Agent Burke, keep me in the loop!”

One hour later, Haversham was on the line. “Well?”

“On my way,” was Peter’s terse reply. “And, Haversham, you better not be yanking my chain.”


	2. More Questions Than Answers

The flight to Asia was long with a few layovers, but finally Peter touched down in Myanmar and immediately requested an audience with the proper official in a supposedly democratic regime, but one with strong military overtones. He was kept waiting for two days until he actually got to talk to some scowling minor official who reminded the visiting Federal Agent that this was a courtesy granted only as a favor. According to this blustering buffoon, the Myanmar government had more pressing issues concerning neighboring Bangladesh which took priority.

Peter glowered right back. “It has come to the attention of my country that you are holding a prisoner here, an American citizen by the name of Neal Caffrey. That individual has committed crimes in the United States to which he must be held accountable. To that end, I believe a discussion has taken place between Washington and your leaders, and it was agreed that I will be escorting that prisoner back to the States as soon as possible.”

“Perhaps my superiors may have forgotten to make me aware of this request,” the pompous official said in an oily tone of voice that set Peter’s nerves on edge.

“Then maybe it might be in your best interest to become better informed,” Peter was not about to be cowed. “Surely, we can get this done without causing some kind of international incident.”

“Is that a threat, Agent Burke?” the odious man asked. “As a guest in my country, I would have expected much more civilized and refined behavior directed towards your benevolent hosts.”

“And I would have expected my _benevolent_ hosts to be much more hospitable and cooperative,” Peter replied smoothly.

“Have we not provided comfortable accommodations and nourishing meals during your brief stay?” came the sharp reply.

“That’s not what we’re talking about and you know it,” Peter snapped.

And so it went for the better part of an hour before the little dictator caved in. He made a call and spoke in stilted, choppy Burmese before putting down the phone. “I will have someone escort you to our penal facility where you can officially take possession of your prisoner. Then a state car will drive you to the airport. I trust that you have the proper paperwork as well as an airline ticket in your possession for your charge.”

“Everything is in order,” Peter assured the loathsome man.

“Then I think that concludes our business,” the official said firmly as he turned on his heel and left the room.

It wasn’t long before a uniformed escort arrived and drove Peter to the outskirts of the city to the grounds of an intimidating fortress with thick, dingy stucco walls and tons of razor wire around the perimeter. Another grim-faced man in uniform then allowed Peter admittance, leading him down a series of serpentine halls before coming to a sort of gateway into a dimly-lit room. Peter was left alone for fifteen minutes until he heard the clank of locks being disengaged and the scrapping of hard boots on concrete.

Peter once had an up close and personal encounter with Neal Caffrey on a Manhattan street. The suspected perpetrator hadn’t made too much of an impression on an agent determined to spread the word about a bond forger. Back then, what Peter saw before him was a young kid in khakis and a white shirt with a mop of shaggy hair falling down over his forehead. Let’s just say that Caffrey, with his babyface and shy demeanor, hadn’t exactly matched the wicked figure that Peter had imagined in his mind.

Later, Caffrey would take on other incarnations as surveillance photos from around the world multiplied like rabbits up on the FBI’s whiteboard. The guy was a chameleon. Sometimes, he looked years older, as well as suave and debonair, in a tuxedo that fit him like a glove. Other pictures showed off a lean but muscular physique as he emerged like an Adonis from the waves of the Caribbean. Then there were the Canadian pictures of him in business attire—black rimmed glasses and three-piece suits. It was no wonder that witnesses had trouble getting their descriptions straight.

However, the Neal Caffrey that was dragged through a door manacled hand and foot resembled none of those pictures. It was an alarming caricature of a once energetic and handsome man. He was scarecrow thin and the bony prominences of his shoulders poked through his thin shirt. His face showed old bruises and healing abrasions as well as evidence of newly inflicted trauma. It was difficult to discern, but Peter thought that the forger stumbled along with a slight limp, and, even after the manacles were removed from the chain around his thin waist, Caffrey kept his left arm protectively close to his body. Probably broken ribs or collarbone, Peter postulated. Not once did Caffrey lift his downcast eyes, even when he was released from his shackles.

“Neal Caffrey, you’re under arrest and I am returning you to New York City to stand trial for bond forgery,” Peter intoned softly, perhaps more for the benefit of the guards rather than a slippery con man.

Only then did the young man dare to raise his blue eyes and stare in bewilderment. “Agent Burke,” he breathed the words almost like a prayer.

“That’s right, Buddy, you’re my responsibility now and we’re leaving,” Peter answered forcefully as he produced his own set of handcuffs. He found it difficult to attach them anywhere on his new captive’s wrists that weren’t already red and scraped raw. Some areas looked to be infected and oozing.

“ _Triage, Peter_ ,” a worried FBI agent intoned silently to himself. Caffrey probably was in need of medical intervention, but Peter’s first priority was to get himself and his prisoner out of this purgatory before someone changed their mind and it all went to shit. Thankfully, they just made the outbound flight after a highspeed, nail-biting ride to the airport. Caffrey had remained silent during the trip, and still remained mute when Peter herded him aboard the jumbo jet to the last two places in the back of the plane where Peter shoved him into the window seat. The freed captive seemed as taut as a bowstring, and the tenseness lasted until the craft had attained cruising altitude and cleared Myanmar airspace. Then he sighed, let his head rest against the cold window, and he seemed to fall asleep immediately as they winged their way toward New Delhi, India where they would spend the night.

After clearing customs and security checkpoints at the Indian airport, Peter’s pre-arranged driver took them to a downtown hotel where they were quietly hustled into the service elevator and up to their corner room on the fourth floor. Peter made a quick call down to the front desk to request the services of the in-house physician while keeping a wary eye on Caffrey, who was standing like a statue in the middle of the room with his hands still cuffed in front of him. Peter watched the young man slowly swivel his head back and forth between the bathroom and the beds. Peter recognized the longing in those gazes, but before he could say a word, Caffrey seemed to have made a decision and moved carefully toward one of the beds where he flopped down with a weary sigh.

“You were out like a zombie for hours on that plane,” Peter remarked. “How tired could you be?”

Caffrey looked at Peter through eyes that were beginning to close. “I was in a small cell for weeks with three other intimidating prisoners, Agent Burke, so let’s just say I didn’t get to relax very much.”

Peter wasn’t about to let his emotions take control. “Look, at the risk of sounding offensive, I think a good scrub in the shower should be the first order of business. You smell like a goat, and the doctor is coming up to look you over.”

Caffrey just sighed again. “I’m fine. I don’t need any doctor poking and prodding me. Believe me when I say that I’ve survived worse. And to address your delicate sensibilities, even if I showered, I’m still going to have to put on the same clothes. It would seem that we left my luggage behind at the luxurious Myanmar resort.”

“You’re only fine if the doctors says you’re fine,” Peter snapped. “When I called down to the front desk, I ordered room service for us tonight as well as a change of clothes for you. I don’t even want to know what half of those ugly stains are.”

“No,” Neal said quietly as he painfully hoisted his emaciated body from the bed, “you definitely don’t want to know.”

“Leave the door open while you’re in the bathroom,” Peter ordered as he removed the handcuffs. “I don’t intend to take my eyes off of you for a minute.”

Despite his stern warning, Peter averted his gaze as his young prisoner shed his clothes in the bathroom and stepped into the shower enclosure where he remained relishing the hot water and pleasantly-scented soap until the hotel physician arrived. Caffrey then emerged wrapped in one of the courtesy robes and placidly allowed the staid man to complete his examination.

“You are young, so you will heal in time,” the dark-skinned doctor rendered his verdict as he applied antiseptic ointment to Neal’s wrists before wrapping them in gauze. “However,” he added wryly, “perhaps you should avoid any more extreme cage fighting in the future.”

Peter rolled his eyes before thanking the man for his assistance and taking possession of the little packet of five pain pills that he left behind. “Do you need one of these now?” he asked Neal solicitously.

“Nah, I’m good,” the kid readily answered.

“Oh, Buddy, I think that’s less than a valid claim in so many ways,” Peter quipped. “You’re far from good. Actually, you’re still in a world of trouble.”

“Right, I’m public enemy number one on the FBI’s play list,” Neal replied sarcastically. “I mean, I know that old adage about the long arm of the law, but does the exalted Bureau always go to such great lengths to apprehend a petty forger. You flew to the other side of the globe for me, Agent Burke, so perhaps this is personal. Maybe you took a hit to your pride, so you’re very determined to get even,” he added thoughtfully.

“I’m just doing my job, Buddy,” Peter said in his own defense.

“Sure you are,” Neal agreed with a private little smile.

“I don’t know what you find funny about your situation,” Peter suddenly went on the offensive. “You’re facing jail time when we get back to New York. You may think you’re invincible, kiddo, but federal prisons are no picnic.”

Neal continued to smile. “At the risk of sounding pathetic, I believe I just did manage to survive a much worse experience.”

Peter’s exasperation was cut short by a knock on the door. He allowed admittance to a short man wearing thick glasses and a white turban wheeling a service cart before him. The diminutive little guy meticulously converted the cart to a fold-out table and, suddenly, the small room took on a tantalizing aroma emanating from beneath the stainless steel domed plates. The silent presence then bowed low as he handed Peter a plastic bag that contained new jeans, underwear, and a hooded sweatshirt. That respectful bobbing gesture allowed Neal to see the dark pancake makeup smudged on the back of the collar of the man’s white tunic. Peter was preoccupied inspecting the chicken tikka and noticed nothing.

“Okay, hotshot, it’s time to chow down and start putting some meat back on your scrawny body,” Peter proclaimed as he began dishing out generous portions of the curried entrée onto two plates. Peter was ravenously wolfing down large mouthfuls of the pungent mixture when he noticed that Neal was ignoring his own dish. Instead, he was placidly nibbling on pieces of naan and sipping his bottled water.

“In case you’ve forgotten, Caffrey, I got you out of that Myanmar prison, so you’re not on bread and water rations anymore.”

“I appreciate the humane gesture,” Neal shrugged.

 “So then, what’s the problem, Buddy? This doesn’t meet your epicurean standards?” Peter asked sarcastically.

“It’s not that,” Neal replied slowly. “It’s just that it’s been a long time since my stomach has had to process heavy spicy meals. We have a long flight ahead of us tomorrow, and the prospect of spending it in a claustrophobic little head on a plane doesn’t sound very appealing.”

Peter suddenly felt contrite for jumping to conclusions. This young criminal had probably endured some hellish days of torment and torture. Maybe Peter should cut him a break.

“You do realize that you got yourself into that dilemma in Myanmar,” Peter said softly. “You weren’t some young naive tourist who just happened to enter the country without a passport or visa. You were there for some nefarious reason and it came back to bite you in the ass.”

“If you say so,” was all that Neal allowed.

“Yeah, I do say so because I know you, Buddy,” Peter persisted. “Tell me, was it rubies or jade that you were after?”

“Agent Burke,” Neal replied quietly, “you may think that you know me, but what I allow people to see is just the tip of the iceberg.”

“So then, enlighten me,” Peter challenged. “Tell me why this career path, this trajectory you’re on to break the law. I get that you’re smart and very talented, so why not pursue a legitimate profession? What is lacking in your young life that you feel compelled to commit crimes?”

“I wish I had an easy answer for you, Agent Burke,” Neal sighed dramatically, “but I’m more complicated than what you see at first glance. I can’t fit myself into a 500 word biopic essay. Let’s just say that I’m a puzzle, an enigma that you have to figure out for yourself. Maybe you’ll never understand me. On the flip side, maybe I’ll never understand myself. But, there’s something appealing about a mystery, don’t you think?”

Peter heaved his own sigh. “Not exactly appealing,” he said softly. “I’d say it’s probably more of a poignant and pathetic existence for you.”

“Condescending much?” Neal snarked. “Don’t try and shrink me, Agent Burke. You’ll only come away from the experience feeling frustrated, and I don’t want you to fret. You’ll get worry lines on your forehead.”

Ignoring Neal’s cautionary advice, Peter did frown, but maybe Caffrey was right. Peter silently warned himself that he had to keep this dynamic on a cold professional level and not let feelings of compassion or even curiosity take center stage. Besides, just like his prisoner, Peter was feeling the encroaching bone weariness of non-stop travel around the world. Not to mention, tense confrontations with some very irritating bureaucrats were also psychologically draining. That second double bed was looking really inviting right now, and, all at once, Peter was struggling to keep his eyes open. Pushing away from the makeshift dining table, he again took out his handcuffs and gestured towards Neal’s bed. He carefully applied the manacles atop the protective bandages on one of the young man’s wrists and then connected it to the headboard.

“Now, behave yourself, Caffrey,” he cautioned. “Get that sleep that you crave because we have an early flight tomorrow, and once we land in New York City, there will be a lot more activities on your dance card.”

When Neal just smiled, Peter stripped down to his own underwear and slid beneath the cool sheets on his side of the room. It wasn’t very long before he fell deeply and dreamlessly asleep. He awoke many hours later and squinted at the daylight streaming in through the gauzy curtains on the window. Apparently, he had slept through his phone alarm.

Peter felt cotton mouthed and hung over at first, and he tenaciously fought the cobwebs in his head as he tried to orient himself. It was harder to do than he expected, but he was suddenly jolted back to the grim reality of the situation when he looked over and saw the handcuffs sitting innocently on the night table. They were no longer attached to a young criminal who was nowhere in the room. Peter bolted upright, valiantly fighting the sudden feeling of nauseating vertigo, and he began to suspect that he somehow had been drugged. It couldn’t have been Caffrey’s doing because Peter had kept the prisoner continually in sight. Peter wrenched open the hotel room door, but the service cart containing last evening’s meal was long gone, just as was Neal Caffrey! The kid was in no shape to have gotten very far on his own, so he must have had help.

Peter huffed out a frustrated breath and sat back down on the bed. It was only then that he noticed the little piece of folded hotel stationary beneath the cuffs. Peter opened it with a sense of foreboding. He half expected a bit of gloating rhetoric, but that wasn’t what he found himself reading. The neat words written on the paper were short but very intriguing.

_“Thank you for saving me, Agent Burke. I owe you.”_


	3. The Promise

A mortified Federal Agent returned to New York empty-handed with his tail between his legs. He knew he had burned a lot of bridges, as well as incurring the wrath of his superior. Hughes was almost apoplectic as he raked Peter over the coals.

“How did a distinguished and experienced FBI agent allow some snot-nosed kid to get the better of him?” the old man demanded to know.

“I believe he had some help from an outside source,” Peter said in his own defense. Even Peter had to admit that it sounded lame, but it was the only excuse he could serve up at this point.

“So, are you really trying to sell the premise that Caffrey is part of some clandestine ring of elusive gangsters?” Hughes sniped sarcastically.

“Maybe he has a crew of just one,” Peter replied softly. “Nonetheless, that pair is very resourceful when the chips are down.”

“So, they can think out of the box. So what!” Hughes grumbled. “Aren’t FBI agents trained to do the same thing when they’re dealing with criminals? Please don’t tell me that you’re willing to admit that you’re out of your league with this little hustler, Peter. Personally, I think you’re better than that.”

“I am better, Reese,” Peter vowed. “It’s only a matter of time before I nab his ass and nail him to the wall.”

“Well, see that you do!” Hughes fairly shouted as he pointed a stabbing finger towards the door, dramatically dismissing Peter with that abrupt gesture.

Things went from bad to worse when reports from foreign sources in the Orient detailed the black-market sale of an extraordinarily large Burmese ruby worth more than its weight in gold. Peter’s team walked on eggshells around their boss for days. As the weeks went by, other reports trickled in from faraway places detailing thefts of treasured artwork, ancient artifacts from museums, as well as other precious gems and gold trinkets. Sometimes, telephoto surveillance shots or street cams documented the presence of a familiar dark-haired young man seen loitering in the vicinity of those crimes. Peter felt conflicted when he experienced a sense of relief to see a healthy-looking Caffrey instead of the badly beaten victim in Myanmar. Then the FBI agent willed himself to get his head back in the game. He had to stop thinking of his nemesis as a pitifully misguided kid instead of a slick, light-fingered criminal. Adults made their own choices, and Caffrey had made his.

Eventually, another little disturbing dichotomy arose when elegantly drawn birthday and anniversary cards were delivered directly to Peter’s home. Initially, Elizabeth was freaked out by this strange development.

“This man is stalking you, Peter,” she said fearfully, “and he knows where we live.”

“Now, don’t get upset, El,” Peter sought to reassure his wife. “Caffrey’s a white collar criminal and strictly nonviolent. He’s just taunting me, Hon, and he doesn’t pose a danger to either of us.”

“Well, I just don’t understand why he feels the need to annoy you, Peter,” El replied. “What’s really behind all this stuff that you are cavalierly dismissing as innocent gestures?”

Peter remembered Neal’s warning about not trying to figure out either him or his motivations. But it was fascinating to imagine where Caffrey was coming from in his very convoluted mind.

Peter shrugged helplessly. “I think he just wants to maintain a connection to someone who once saved his wretched life. Maybe he’s sorely lacking in a support system and, sadly enough, that’s what I’ve become to him.”

“That’s really messed up,” Elizabeth said softly.

“Yeah, well, I think Neal’s really psychologically messed up,” Peter answered, quite unaware that he had referred to the perpetrator of numerous alleged crimes by his first name.

~~~~~~~~~~

As was the norm, nothing concrete ever materialized that could be used as evidence against Neal Caffrey. He was like the wind—a strong gale that buffeted you from side to side, but you could never actually wrap your hands around a force of nature. Peter tried not to perseverate on just one elusive criminal. There were many other fish in the sea, perhaps not as brilliant, but still prickly thorns in the side of justice.

Lately, those obnoxious players were running a smuggling ring right through the shipyards across the Hudson, and the FBI found themselves working in tandem with Organized Crime to catch the offenders. It seemed that a Mob affiliated syndicate was importing supposedly legitimate paintings from abroad, thus White Collar’s involvement. Organized Crime entered the picture when it became known that a customs agent had been compromised into allowing bags of almost pure heroin from Turkey to be hidden amongst the excelsior packing material surrounding the artwork. The value was estimated to be in the millions, even after the stuff would be cut and adulterated before distribution on the New York streets.

Many man hours of tedious surveillance went into the operation, and many confidential informants’ arms were twisted to get a handle on the date of the next drop. Phone lines were tapped after warrants had been obtained, and even Peter took his turn listening to translations of unrelated trivia. Finally, after almost three weeks of sitting on a time bomb, all systems were a go. Peter green-lighted his own team at the scene after they donned their tactical vests and checked their sidearms. SWAT would be their escort into a dark warehouse in Bayonne, New Jersey, a maritime adjunct city of the New York Port facilities.

To say that it all went smoothly would be a lie. The many perpetrators inside that building did not intend to go down easy. After the surprise breach, there was a cacophony of strafing gunfire, explosive percussion blasts, and screamed oaths as total chaos ensued in almost blinding darkness. Even with night goggles in place, it was hard for Peter to determine who was friend or foe in the crush of humanity around him. He could only hope that his team was spared, and that silent prayer was the last coherent thought in his mind. Suddenly, he felt what seemed like the sky crashing down on his head and he lost consciousness. He awoke hours or maybe even days later to find himself securely zip tied to a very thick pipe in what appeared to be a dank, dark enclosure. He had no way of knowing that he was being held captive in a dilapidated old shack in a far-flung New York borough.

Pelham Bay Park was actually a municipal park located in the northeast corner of the Bronx. Comprising almost 3,000 acres, it is the largest park in New York City, roughly three times bigger than Manhattan’s Central Park. It’s also a mixed bag of geological features. Parts of it are densely forested woodlands with numerous scenic nature trails that birdwatchers or hiking enthusiasts can enjoy. It even has bridle paths for equestrians. A lagoon pretty much bisects the whole expanse, and there are numerous recreational areas with water access, such as Orchard Beach, which also boasts of two golf courses. The southwest part of the park was developed to accommodate surrounding neighborhoods with the creation of playgrounds, baseball fields, basketball and tennis courts, and a running track. Peter’s present accommodations were deep in undeveloped territory, probably long-forgotten when gentrification got underway.

When some degree of lucidity returned, Peter had some very intimidating visitors with distinct Russian accents. They suspected their organization had a mole and they demanded to know that person’s identity. Even if Peter were privy to that knowledge, he wasn’t about to be cooperative, and that reluctance earned him his first beat down. Two more days followed with two more intense beatings, and Peter’s strength was slowly leaching away. He had lost all hope of being rescued by his team, and eventually found himself wishing for it all to end with his death in the darkness. He could only pray that one day his body would be discovered so that El could bury him properly and achieve some form of closure.

Peter was slumped as far down as his secured hands would allow, and his head was resting dejectedly on his chest when his ears picked up just the slightest wisp of a sound in the darkness around him. He had just raised his head slightly when a hand was suddenly clamped over his mouth causing him to jerk and struggle.

“Just be cool, Agent Burke,” a soft voice whispered in his ear.

Then, as if by magic, the plastic zip ties fell away, but Peter’s hands were too numb to make them work. “Just give it a minute,” the anonymous voice advised. The befuddled FBI agent couldn’t get a handle on what exactly was happening until the faceless visitor started to chuckle softly.

“This is like déjà vu, Agent Burke—a beat up prisoner being tortured by thugs and in desperate need of saving, and suddenly, in the nick of time, a superhero comes to the rescue.”

“Caffrey?” Peter whispered incredulously.

“At your service,” came the cheeky reply.

“How did you get in here, and, more to the point, how did you even know that I was being held captive?” Peter demanded an explanation.

“So many questions and so little time,” Caffrey teased in a whisper. “Let’s take care of your escape before we have any displeased discussions about stalking. Can you walk?”

“You lead the way and I’ll make it, even if I have to crawl,” Peter vowed with a bit of bravado.

After the two men had quietly climbed through a hole in some rotted boards, they began an overland trek through some dense undergrowth. Peter wasn’t actually crawling on his hands and knees, but Neal was definitely propping him up and supporting most of the larger man’s weight as they laboriously put one foot in the front of the other. Luckily, most of their journey was downhill, and eventually Peter and Neal reached a nondescript dark sedan pulled off the highway at Tallapoosa Point.

“Your getaway car, Agent Burke,” Neal was suddenly chatty as he pushed Peter into the passenger seat and buckled him in. “Hospital or home?” the con man then asked as he started the engine and gave Peter a sidelong glance.

“Home!” Peter breathed out gratefully.

“Your wish is my command, Sir,” Neal smiled.

The long ride home was a period of silent but comfortable comradery. After all, what was there to say between the mismatched pair who shared a long history. Peter wished that he could alter the dynamic of being on opposing sides of the law, but he was also a realist. It just wasn’t going to happen. Finally, when Neal pulled up to the curb outside Peter’s Brooklyn townhouse, Peter found himself asking, “I’m certainly appreciative that you saved my life, but tell me why you risked life and limb for me, Neal?”

The young con man smiled fondly and it looked genuine in the illumination from the street lamp on the corner. “Because I owed you, Peter, and I’m just repaying a debt.”


End file.
